Close Call
by vodka straight
Summary: This is a gap filler for Justin and Brian near the begginning of the fourth season. It picks up as Justin comes home to Brian's loft the night he almost shot Chris Hobbs in the head.


Brian sat on the bed, staring at the work he knew he had to finish. He was having trouble concentrating on anything until his door slid open. 

All the lights in the apartment were off except for the blue strips over the bed. Brian had gotten used to reading by their light, even though he'd been told over and over again by Justin that it was going to make him go blind one day. These were the polite naggings of their relationship; the things that make Justin feel connected and make Brian feel vindicated: if he puts up with Justin's stupid little criticisms and fussings, how can Justin possibly complain that they're not in a relationship.

"Hey." he says, not moving from the half-inclined position on the bed. Justin looks up. Brian thinks that he looks cold and confused. 

"Hey." he said calmly in response. He stands at the door for a long moment. Brian makes the next move, because there are times for being cool and above it all, and there are time for… not.

"Where've you been?" he asks gently, casually, looking back down at the bills on the bedcovers.

Justin doesn't move. He's standing very far away and even if Brian looked up, he couldn't see his face, so he doesn't bother with the discomfort. There's a long moment during which Brian knows Justin is decided whether or not to tell him the truth. 

"I went to Chris Hobbs's house." 

Somewhere in an exact, unpleasant section of Brian's brain he wonders if it would be "Hobbs's" or "Hobbs'". The moment passes and he just stares at the pale, frozen boy in his apartment.

"Did you kill him?" he asks after a long pause. Justin's face finally breaks it's mold and laughs and frowns at the same time. 

"What? No!" 

"'Cause I wouldn't be angry if you killed him." 

"I--I didn't kill him, Brian. Fuck." 

Finally the boy seems relaxed enough to enter the room. He walks over to the bed, casually removing his jacket, even though to Brian he still looks so cold. 

Justin sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched the back of his neck and looked away from Brian at the wall. The loft was silent but for the shifting of his clothes, the friction of his skin. 

"You want to come to bed?" Brian says flatly after a moment. Justin looks at him as though he just realized he wasn't alone in the room. 

"Yeah. Yeah, did you want to--"

"Nah." Brian answers immediately, flippantly. He knows the strange pressure Justin feels to be touching him, fucking him all the time. He knows that the pressure to be having sex is always with Justin, and it always plays a role in their interaction. Justin thinks Brian likes to fuck around with other men because he needs to be having sex all the time; like maybe, if Justin just has sex with him enough, he won't cheat quite so much. But of course, that's not quite right. It's too hard to put exactly into words, and Brian wants to negate it right off the bat tonight; he wants to take Justin completely off the hook. 

"You sure?" Justin asks, as though he were planning on it or something.

"Yeah. I'm tired, I've got shit to do. Come to bed." 

Justin nods curtly and stands to strip of his clothes. He climbs in to bed and Brian hopes he doesn't notice think anything of it as he collects the shit he has to do and drops it into a semi-neat pile on the floor next to the bed. He lays back on his back and stares at the creepy blue ceiling. Justin is lying on his side, facing away from Brian. 

"Justin?" 

There is a pause. Justin's thinking that he could just fake sleep. 

"Hm?" he hums back quietly.

"You alright?" Brian would never have this question asked to himself, but he's slowly learning that Justin is not really like him, and although HE really doesn't want to be asked these questions, sometimes people really are only pretending they don't want attention. There's a moment of silence and Brian's just about to forget the whole thing when Justin roles over to face him, and to Brian's unbelievably strong displeasure, there are tears in his eyes. 

"I realized--" Justin chokes hard on the word, but pulls himself together. Brian keeps himself from touching him, but he doesn't know how. "I'm never NOT gonna be scared of him, Brian. He was kneeling on the ground, begging for his life, and I was still scared of him. How is that possible? He's nothing."

He's looking at Brian now, pleading for some kind of explanation. Justin's trying so hard not to cry it makes Brian's stomach hurt. Brian sighs and looks at him with uncompromising certainty.

"Listen to me, Justin. I'm going to tell you something that your punk friends don't seem to understand. Are you listening?"

Justin nodded.

"It's possible because complete, unfettered hatred is terrifying. Okay? It doesn't make any sense, and it's terrifying. It's not natural. The boy is fucking evil, Justin. He's just pure evil. Being scared of the Devil doesn't make you a pussy, okay? You're not weak. You're not weak, you're not pathetic, you're not a scared little faggot, okay, your friend Cody's a dumbass."

"He's not my friend." Justin replies quietly.

"Good."

They are quiet again, and after a moment Brian moves purposely to put his hand on Justin's shoulder and pull him in a little closer. His skin is freezing and it makes Brian wonder what kind of dark, midnight confrontation took place on the Devil's back porch tonight. But somehow he doesn't want to know. He doesn't need to, that's for sure. He gets a very good, very certain feeling that this is finally finished.

Justin's cold body is pliable and submissive; he moves to lie against Brian's chest without resistance, and his breathing has gone back to normal, and the room is silent and in rhythm once again.

Brian has the strong feeling that he got away lucky from a close call. 


End file.
